Firestorm
by Sawn-Off-GlitterBoy
Summary: He has everything at stake, and Harry doesn't indent to lose any more than he already has. He will win this war, any way he can. The Dark will learn the hard way, that once you open the box, you can't put the demon away.


Sawn-Off Glitter-Boy presents:

Firestorm

A Harry Potter Fanfiction 

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"_War…War never changes. The weapons are different, the words are different, the venues are different, but war, war never changes. In the end, it all comes down to one human being killing another human being over a small sliver of land, a meager pile of metal, or worse, an idea. A war waged because of an ideal is the worst kind of war."_ _-M. J. Mueller, American Tek-Magus, after seeing the aftermath of a raid on Diagon Alley._

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Harry Potter sat in his tiny little room, gazing out of his tiny little window, watching a tiny little part of the world, hating himself. _Sirius, I'm so sorry, I failed you. I killed you, I'm sorry._ Harry's thoughts echoed along these venues over and over, tormenting himself over his Godfather's death, replaying that moment where he arced into the veil, never to live again. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, bathing the room in a chemical-orange glow, the same color as the burning end of the cigarette that hung in Harry's lips. Smoking had become his new stress reliever, after Dudley had offered him one when Harry was on one of his 'mope-walks', as they had been termed by the guards that watched him constantly.

-Flashback/-   
"Hey, Potter," the voice was muted, much more quiet and less grating than when Harry had heard his cousin last. He turned his head to Dudley, assessing the potential threat in front of him. Harry had begun surveying the world in levels of danger ever since he had gotten home from King's Cross, and deemed Dudley a low-class danger, unless provoked. His cousin held a cigarette in his left hand, pinched gently between his meaty index and middle fingers, outstretched towards him. Dudley asked him, "Want one? Or are you freaks above smoking, too?" Harry mutely took the offered smoke, put it on his dry lips, running his tongue over the filter, tasting the tobacco smell that stained everyone of the little white cylinders in the pack. Almost without thinking, he snapped his fingers, feeling the ambient energy coalesce on the end of his fag, the end flaring into life with a sizzle, and a very quiet 'pfft'. Dudley looked slightly alarmed at this, but he then calmed considerably when Harry snapped his fingers again, and Dudley's lit up too. Harry took a drag, coughed slightly and said, "Useful little trick, that is. Saves on lighter fluid." 

-Flashpresent/-

Dudley had been kind enough to introduce Harry to his suppler, telling the man behind the counter that he was a friend, and that if he came in and asked for a pack, just give him one, that Dudley would compensate him later. Harry wondered if this was his way of paying him back for some of the things he had done to Harry in the past. Now, Harry sat in his window, one leg hanging out, tapping quietly against the siding of the house that was bathed in the same color as his room currently. Life, it seemed, wanted to make an example of him. First his parents, then the Dursleys, then Quriell, then the Chamber, the Dementors, the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and then Sirius. _Fate must really hate the hero in this one_, Harry though absently, reflecting on his current situation. Harry had come to the conclusion that his life must be an experiment by Fate in how many times she could yank the carrot away from the horse before it broke its own legs and waited for the farmer to show up with the shotgun. Harry's thoughts were becoming more and more macabre as the summer wore on, often degrading into creative ways to kill Bellatrix and Tommy boy, completely disregarding the advice he read in the letters from his associates (he was very hesitant to call them friends anymore) and teachers to not dwell on the Department of Mysteries. If anything, he thought more about it, but now refused to let emotions get in the way of his recollections. It now became very analytical, tearing everything apart to find his weaknesses, and eliminate them.

First on his list was his body, its current state as underfed and underpowered wouldn't help him in a war. A soldier didn't have the body of a runt, he couldn't afford to. A soldier's first and best weapon was his body, and Harry focused on making his more deadly than any spell or venom in existence. After the incident with Dudley and the smokes, Dudley seemed more receptive of Harry's presence, and helped him turn his weak and frail frame into something more useful. Pushups and sit-ups, morning and night, and often times through the night, because of his inability of sleep through the night. This worried Harry at first, but then found that he didn't desire to sleep anymore, than his body seemed to thrive on the constant work and strain placed on it, rather than wither and protest against it. He never slept since he started his physical regimen, he just kept working, pushing his body to new limits, feeding it what it demanded, high protein and carbo-loaded foods, to fuel its rapid growth. The change in him was almost grotesque, he went from weak and thin to built, toned, and strong in a little less than four weeks, something that wasn't physically possible. But, when those same rules say that magic isn't possible, that kind of growth doesn't seem so ridiculous. The magic both inside of Harry, and around him, flowed into him, building itself into his muscles, bones, blood, and tissue.

When Harry finally reached his limits, his instincts telling him he could go no further, he was as much a creature of flesh and blood as he was pure magic, it was that closely woven into him. Harry's senses were sharper than anything he could ever imagine, he could see perfectly now, he merely held onto the glasses as a disguise, his ears could pick out individual heartbeats inside of a person at the other end of the park, that he couldn't even see. His nose was hypersensitive, able to identify people merely on smell alone, much in the same way a dog did when sniffing something. Taste and touch were similarly enhanced, his fingers able to read the words on a page, merely by running them along the page, sensing the difference between inked sections and regular paper, putting them together in his head to make words and sentences. His tongue could pick out individual ingredients in soups and batter, and with a little trial and error, he could distinguish potion ingredients merely by tasting and smelling the brew. Nothing surprised him anymore, he could detect people as easily as if they were painted neon red and yellow with a large 'Kick Me' floating over them. The Order guards, he decided, would make terrible spies without their invisibility cloaks and disillusionment charms. He wasn't sure when, but Harry had started seeing where the spells and cloaks were, they looked like waves of hot air over the asphalt, so ridiculously easy to see. His lack of sleep also facilitated his ability to spy on the guards, able to sit in one position for hours, just watching them, learning the sings and counter-signs of each shift, who went where, and the routine of the guards. Harry decided that the best time for him to exfiltrate the area around Privet Drive was on Tuesday, during the Bill Weasely/Tonks shift, at 10:36 AM, giving him a twelve and a half minute window in which to exit the area and cover his tracks.

However appealing the thought of leaving his confinement was, it would merely cause more trouble, and cause a change-up in the guard order, throwing off his carefully made schedule of people, times, locations, and code-words. He instead spent his sleepless nights re-reading his old school books, memorizing their contents, word for word, until he could cite chapter and verse of all of his textbooks. He also spent time reading the old books left there when the room was once a junkyard for Dudley's old things. On volume, in particular, caught his interest, _The Things They Carried_ by one Tim O'Brien, apparently a relic of Dudley's that had been deposited recently. The book was an interesting combination of story, memoir, and fiction about O'Brien's experiences in Vietnam, and Harry found a strange kin-ship with the author, especially when he read the section called _On The Rainy River_, where the author was describing his inner torment about going off to fight, finally ending with _"I was a coward. I went to war."_ It was strange; he felt the exact opposite about his fight, yet he understood O'Brien's feelings about the whole mess. As Harry lay in bed, the setting sun playing across the white cover of the book, he murmured, "Am I a coward, for wanting to fight, but not being able too? Does that make me just as bad as a soldier who runs?" Another set of sleepless nights went by, he could barely keep track anymore, it was as if there was no clear line between when the world slept, and when the world woke. Harry spent this time learning, meditating, finding out how far he could push his magic, what he could and couldn't do with it. He also signed up for Tae Kwon Do, on the premise that most of the pureblooded morons who worked for Tommy wouldn't expect a kick to the face when they were dueling. This was where Harry began to run into his first snags, starting all with a letter from Hermoine.

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Harry was relaxing in his room, cigarette between his lips, perched on his usual spot in the window with one leg hanging out. The sun felt good on his face, a welcome heat in the afternoon while he burned through his fourth smoke that day. Hedwig thought his habit was rather distasteful, but he made it up to her by smoking when she was out hunting or on a mail run so she wouldn't have to put up with the smoke. Speaking of which, the aforementioned owl was coming in for a landing, with a few others in tow, all bearing some kind of package.

Harry quickly finished his fag, snubbed it, and got out of the windowsill for the incoming birds. He immediately recognized Lupin's owl, bearing a rather sizeable letter that Harry was sure spelled nothing but headaches. Pig was being his usual self, fluttering around like a Golden Snitch on crack. Harry though that it could be rather amusing if he just let Pig fly like that for a while and see if the bird tired himself out. It seemed that the tiny fluff ball had a limitless reserve of energy, and Harry idly wondered if Pig was like him, meaning, he didn't sleep. Shrugging his shoulders, he resolved to find out later, and then turned his attention to the other owls, one of them he immediately identified as a ministry owl, whom he promptly sent away, not caring what they had to send him. If there was any truly important news that they wanted to give him, they could give it to him in person. The envelope smelled of too much ink and a sweaty hand, from what Harry was able to catch before the owl took off, probably his OWL results. He returned his attention to the three remaining owls, retrieving the letters and packages they bore. _Packages? What the…shit, did I forget about my birthday?_ Harry's thoughts were confirmed when he looked over at the calendar on the wall, he realized that it WAS his birthday. "Hmm, I seem to have forgotten about that one, dear me," he mumbled with a small, cracked grin as he opened his various letters and packages. The first one he opened smelled faintly of food and fresh air, obviously Ron's.

_Hey mate!_

_How have things been recently? I hope that things have been good for you, and that you aren't beating yourself up so badly about Sirius. It wasn't your fault, OK? We got worried when you hadn't been writing, and the only thing that even lets the Order know your alive is the fact that you keep sending your notes every three days. However, the guards tell us that your fine and quiet, and that you've really bulked up. I bet they're exaggerating, your probably just putting on a little bit of muscle, am I right? Anyway, enjoy the gift; I think you'll like it. Don't let the muggles get you down!_

Ron 

"Huh, how thoughtful of him." Harry had unwrapped Ron's gift, it was a pair of gloves with metal inserts over the knuckles, and reinforcement bars, made of the same metal, going up the forearms. The fingers had been cut off at the second knuckle, just below the end of the metal bars. However, Harry, being the cautious individual he was, didn't pick them up immediately, because they _reeked_ of magic. There was a note underneath the right-hand glove, which he pulled out and unfolded.

_Harry-_

_Bill gave me these to give to you, as a present from the both of us. Bill told me that these are replicas of an old German magical item, whose name means "Fists of the Wizard" or "Hand of the Magus", one, or a combination, of the two. They were supposed to have belonged once upon a time to a German wizard who was also a warrior, fond of using his fists as well as magic. So, he commissioned an artificer to, basically, create brass knuckles that functioned as a wand. Bill picked these up when he was in Germany last month on an errand for work. The man who sold them to Bill assured him that they would work, but Bill couldn't even get them to sputter. Still, they look pretty cool! Wear 'em to scare the pants off that whale of a cousin of yours!_

Ron and Bill 

Harry had to admit, they _did_ look cool, and they had a distinct aura of "mess with whoever is wearing me and he'll rip your head off and use it for a quaffle". Deciding that if they did end up killing him or some such nasty fate that he'd be able to pay Ron back in the next life, he picked them up and brought them closer to his face for examination. The metal was polished to a near-mirror finish, with a red shine to it that seemed _alive_ as the light played across it. The metal on the forearms held a similar color and shine, but the ones on the backs of the hands held his attention.

There was a circular pattern on the back, which looked remarkably similar to a magical circle, in the same material, but the red shine was more intense on these plates than the others, much more alive than the others, as if red lightning was dancing underneath the metal. However, this deterred Harry none, figuring that if Bill tried them on and he wasn't dead, he should be fine. They slid easily up his arms and over his fingers, the leather fitting comfortably to the curves of his fingers, and they tightened to his arms automatically, kind of a nice feature. Harry examined his hands, and immediately noticed that the gauntlets were almost a quarter of the weight they were when he first put them on, if not less. The second was that when ever he moved them faster than if he were doing one of the tension blocks in one of his katas, the left a blurred after image where they traveled. _Okaaay, this isn't supposed to happen, I take it,_ Harry thought, watching as if his arms were some bizarre parody of The Flash, wondering if he could take them off. Almost as if the gauntlets could read his thoughts, they loosened and slid off his arms as if they were greased. "Whoa," were the only words that echoed in the room as Harry picked up the gauntlets, turning the over in hands, wondering what exactly these things were made of.

Shuffling the gauntlets over to the side, he moved through the other letters with a careless eye, all of them saying the same thing, more or less, until he got to Hermione's letter. The letter smelled of tears, ink, and a small drop of blood or two, and Harry opened it with some trepidation.

_Harry,_

_Why are you cutting yourself off? Why aren't you writing anyone? AND WHY DID YOU SEND YOUR OWL RESULTS AWAY? I KNOW that no one is going to mention this, because the Headmaster said leave it be, but these scores are your FUTURE! How can you just throw them away and not care? Don't be a selfish prick Harry Potter, and tell me that you're grieving over Sirius, because the guards tell us that your moving around and doing all sorts of things, and you're looking too happy/content/stoned to be grieving for Sirius. And on that topic, YOU WILL STOP SMOKING WHEN I SEE YOU AT HEADQUARTERS, YOU UNDERSTAND? That habit will kill you before you're 40! So stop NOW, understand? See you in a few days, and you had better stopped smoking!_

_Love, Hermoine_

The letter was done in typical Hermoine style, neat and concise, but with a few teardrops at the beginning and end of the note, and a small red stain on the lower right corner that was old and dried, a papercut, most likely. Harry smiled at the note, small at first, but by the end, it had grown into a full psycho-stalker grin, accompanied with a laugh that would make even a seasoned soldier shit themselves. His response was short, simple, and spiced with a few choice oaths.

_Hermoine,_

_Fuck off, who are you to tell me what to do? Since when are you my a) guardian, b) mother, or c) someone who can do anything about it? Second, the OWLS are worthless to me, since I don't have a relative insurance on if I'm going to fucking live long enough to use them! Once I kill Tommy-boy, then we can talk about OWLS. Until then, keep your opinions to yourself. Oh, and by the way, the whole smoking thing? Refer to my point about the OWL scores: Right now I'm more likely to be killed in my sleep than I am by smoking, understood? _

_With all the love and sympathy for your now-rocked perceptions of me, Harry_

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SO…that's the first chapter. I could really use the reviews, seeing as I have no idea where I'm going to take this, tho I know it involves guns…lots of guns…and magic! Oh yeah, while I'm at it, I don't own Harry Potter, I do own the quote at the beginning of the story, as well as M.J. Mueller, a character of my own creation, tho I don't know if he'll get a role, maybe a cameo as the story develops. Ah, yes, while I'm at it, I also own the whole concept of Tek-Magic (at least this version), and I'll try not to steal anything too important, if I do and don't credit the source, I'd appreciate it if somebody told me. Thanks!


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